


moonstruck

by khirimochi (NekoAisu)



Series: posthumous [10]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Biting, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mild Blood, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Oral Fixation, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Smut, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Vague and Probably Inaccurate Sexual Content, Wet Dream, no beta we die like asahi sas brutus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25244761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/khirimochi
Summary: It’s the split second view he gets of the Warrior of Light’s teeth as he speaks, the flash of sharp (predatory) canines and incisors that sets some part of him on edge.He wants to feel them on his throat.
Relationships: X'rhun Tia/Original Character(s), X'rhun Tia/Warrior of Light
Series: posthumous [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1266878
Comments: 12
Kudos: 29





	moonstruck

**Author's Note:**

> Can i write smut well? No  
> Do i care? Yes  
> Will i make it everyone else’s problem? Absolutely 
> 
> Lmk if i missed any tags

X’rhun knows exactly what it means to be a tia. He is intimately acquainted with the many trials and tribulations that encompass rutting without a tribe to keep hormones in check. He doesn’t know why (or what, or  _ how)  _ the Warrior of Light has managed to weasel his way into his bed, only that he has and seems inordinately pleased about it. 

“Rhun,” he calls, laid out atop the sheets like a vision, “don’t you want me?”

His voice sticks in his throat no matter how much he wishes to reply. When it comes out, it nearly feels like someone else is speaking for him with their mouth near to his ear. “Of course, Fahmi.”

He flicks his ears, taking a half step toward the bed and nearly running into the frame of it. His shins knock into the wood, but when he looks down, it’s somehow turned to stone like an Ala Mhigan dais. Fahmi smiles at him, teeth flashing from behind lacquered lips, and his mouth goes dry. 

He has no idea where to look. 

Staring at his lips seems rude, but where else is he to look? There is a distinct lack of  _ everything  _ on him, white sheets rumpled like he fell onto them—or was pushed, X’rhun’s mind supplies with a quick flash of what could have been—knees bent and legs turned inward as if to protect his modesty. Had his hair been unbound, it may as well have been the killing blow.

When he blinks, Fahmi is already tugging the ribbons and ornaments from the length of it, loosing fulm upon fulm of inky, black hair from its many plaits and pinnings. X’rhun swears it flows like water for the span of a second before his hand closes around a portion of it. Then, it’s nearly like a handful of silk (the rich, imported sort from Hingashi that he can never find at port) with how it slips from between his fingers. The spill of it is sharp against the sheets, carving an image X’rhun struggles to ignore. 

He looks nearly  _ debauched.  _ The Warrior of Light, savior to Eorzea and decorated champion of Ala Mhigo, laying on a bed with hair unbound and nary a piece of clothing in sight. It’s enough to make him sweat beneath his high collar. 

“You can touch more,” Fahmi says, looking at him from beneath lowered lashes. It’s the same type of coy look that he’s gotten from barmaids in years past. The same one that usually ended with him betwixt some buxom lass’s thighs back when he was young and not as guilt-ridden. 

But there is something else to it, some hidden facet to the look that he can’t quite name until Fahmi’s expression twists from coy to outright anxious. He looks up at him and then away, ears folding back to his head and downard. He turns his head to expose the mostly-unmarred side of his neck and waits.

It’s a whisper when he asks, “Is… is this okay?” 

X’rhun swallows. His teeth  _ itch.  _ He wants so badly to sink his teeth into him so badly it makes his stomach seize like it would over a hunger pang. 

Fahmi watches him approach, shifting to open his legs and allow him to crawl between them. When he reaches down, gloves removed (and had he done that while climbing onto the bed?), Fahmi shivers. The brush of his fingertips against his jaw is electric, the same sort of shock he feels after casting Verthunder and feeling aether rocket from his fingertips to the Focus. He slides his hand downward, palm half on his face and half on his neck, with no intent to allow himself to act on one of his many vices. 

Fahmi turns into the touch. He shudders when X’rhun traces a line from jaw to clavicle, pupils blown wide enough it’s nearly like looking at a new moon. His lips part when X’rhun’s hand glides upward once more and somehow, like a waking dream, the Seeker finds his thumb up to the second knuckle inside Fahmi’s mouth. 

He freezes, caught between the urge to press down on the tongue half-lapping at his fingertip and the need to not get his finger bitten off by wickedly sharp incisors and canines. It takes him a long moment to process what, exactly, he’s doing with his hand (or rather, the entirety of his life up to this fateful event) before he attempts to withdraw. 

He feels resistance before he realizes why. Fahmi, in a fit of divine initiative or stubbornness, has wrapped a hand about his wrist and refused to allow him quarter. His tongue presses against the pad of his thumb, smoother than a Seeker’s and careless of his own predatory-looking teeth, a flush building high on his cheeks. 

X’rhun feels his trousers grow uncomfortably tight. 

He leans down, watching the rise and fall of Fahmi’s chest and how it stutters when his hair brushes his chest, before turning his head to the side carefully, thumb still hooked in his mouth. His lips part the nearer he comes to the skin of his neck before he freezes.

He can’t do it. 

Biting between Seekers is something done by those who want a bond. It  _ can  _ be done between tias and other tribe members, but that’s a comparative rarity to see (or experience). He hadn’t considered it prior to becoming part of the Red and certainly didn’t have time to dally on it after. 

His lips brush against Fahmi’s neck, just barely above a scar that stretches worrying long across the width of it, and he lays a kiss there instead. Fahmi moans around his finger when the kiss turns to kisses and nips and a burst of pain high up near his jaw that promises to bruise in the most delightful of ways. His legs shift, heels pressing insistently against X’rhun’s lower back, and then  _ quiver.  _

They’re pressed close enough to be nearly chest to chest, the many ruffles and chains of the Seeker’s coat hanging down to tease at Fahmi’s skin proving to be as much a nuisance as they are a turn-on. He withdraws and fumbles with the buttons before discarding it, tugging his shirt from his pants and over his head without care or grace. 

When they draw close once more, it’s without three and some odd layers in the way. He can press them together from chest to hip and  _ oh.  _ He forgot about his own discomfort when faced with the Warrior of Light in his bed, waiting to be bonded like he wants nothing more than to give himself away to someone he met for all of five minutes in the backstreets of Ala Ghiri. His trousers are painfully tight, the lacing of his smalls digging uncomfortably into his erection, and he reaches a hand down to do what he has in years past—shove down the waistband just low enough to free himself—to avoid fighting through the arduous process of unfastening every buckle and clasp of his uniform pants. 

Fahmi gives him a onceover and purrs, stretching his arms over his head. He asks, “All of you is rather pretty, isn’t it?” 

X’rhun huffs half a laugh, nervousness he hadn’t even felt building beginning to dissipate, and replies, “Not so much as you.”

The Keeper’s blush darkens, spreading from his cheeks nearly down to his chest. “‘M not,” he argues, mumbling out of the side of his mouth. 

“What can I do to convince you?” 

“Stop teasing,” he says, still too soft to be audible from any farther than they are now, “and bite me.”

X’rhun feels heat flood him from the head down and settle inside his bones. He salivates heavily enough he needs to swallow before asking, “Are you sure?” 

“Yes.”

And his voice cuts out again. He can only watch himself open his mouth, feel his lips draw back from his teeth, and pray that somehow this is reality and not some drink-induced fancy. His teeth close around Fahmi’s skin, feeling muscle jump beneath them, and the sensation of them pressing downward, inexorably,  _ intentionally  _ until they break skin has his hips grinding forward. He ruts against him in little circles, the type of constant pressure reserved for when he’s inside of someone and finalizing a bond with more than teeth and tongue. 

When he releases the spot, his jaw pops and sends a twinge of pain up his skull. He works it out absently, eyes fixed on the sluggishly bleeding ring of teeth marks he’d left behind. He can taste blood on his tongue. His lips are sticky with it. 

Fahmi pants below him, eyes half-lidded and heart hammering hard enough he can feel it where they rest together. There’s a sharpness to his gaze that reminds X’rhun of what comes next. 

To seal a bond, Fahmi need do the same to him. 

When he gasps, the points of his teeth look wickedly inviting. They’re sharper than any fellow Seeker X’rhun has met and longer, besides. 

The perfect size for latching onto him and demanding he submit, canines crushing down against the sides of his neck and puncturing skin—and somehow, impossibly, the scene has shifted to have Fahmi behind him, one hand holding his head still by the jaw while the other wraps around his cock. 

His palms are callused and sure where they press against him. The slide of his right hand is distracting enough that X’rhun forgets to watch himself. He groans, gasping and nearly  _ whimpering  _ when Fahmi’s claws scrape against his skin. The heat from earlier has never left, only settled, and now it drips southward like honey. It’s slow building, pooling one drop at a time. 

His hands dig into the sheets to avoid touching Fahmi. Rhalgr knows he would well and truly never be able to stop himself, if he did once again. 

The hand on his cock tightens ever so slightly, grip slightly slick where he spills pre across the Keeper’s fingers, and he moans into the back of his own fist.

(When had he let go of the sheets? Does it even matter?)

There’s a split second between when he loses control of himself and when there is a sudden burst of euphoric pain. It spreads like wildfire, burning from his neck outward, and he jolts so hard he falls out of bed.

He wheezes, flat on his back on the inn room’s timeworn floor, and blinks. He feels terrible, back of his neck aching with a phantom sensation of teeth and terrible pressure, and he… had dreamt all of that. 

He’d had a fantasy of the Warrior of Light, a man of which he’d spoken less than six sentences to, and (if the distinct wetness in his smalls is any indication) messed himself at the fantasy of being bonded by him. 

His hands ache and there are loose feathers stuck to his cheek. A glance at his pillow (and some blinking to clear the sleep from his eyes) tells him that his delusion cost his pillow a third of it’s stuffing. He can see spit soaked into the covering around a large and uneven tear. He imagines that’s what his brain has substituted for Fahmi’s neck. Which he was dreaming about in detail. When they are not even close enough to be acquaintances. 

If he was mortified about having a wet dream at his age, the knowledge that it was about  _ bonding  _ is somehow worse. 

He can remember the sensation of Fahmi’s hair in his hand, how wet his mouth had been when he lapped at his thumb, and how beautifully he’d cried out when X’rhun had marked him. While certain sections of his dream are vague and have already begun to fade, he remembers with clarity the exact sensation of being bonded. Waking up alone (deluded, denied) feels like a punch to the gut. He’s painfully lonely.

He sighs, scrubbing hands over his face, and hopes that their next meeting won’t result in more of the same. He isn’t sure he’d be able to take it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please scream about rhun and fahmi with me i only have two brain cells and both are devoted to these old men
> 
> hmu on:  
> Twitter [@khirimochi](https://twitter.com/khirimochi) OR [@TheHolyBody (NSFW)](https://twitter.com/TheHolyBody)  
> Tunglr @[Main](https://kiriami.tumblr.com) OR @[FFXIV Imagines](https://ffxivimagines.tumblr.com)


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